


Bonfire Night

by sansasparky



Series: Holiday [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, British, F/M, Gen, Smut, Students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansasparky/pseuds/sansasparky
Summary: It's Bonfire Night, and Sansa's just been dumped. For a stripper, no less. What better way to get over her arsehole ex than going out, getting pissed, and shagging an attractive stranger?Arya's got a few ideas, but no one seems to be listening. Even though she's talking REALLY loudly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soon I will be out watching the fireworks and hopefully drinking some form of mulled booze, but first it's time to post the beginning of this piece of amusingly British filth I have been working on. I started out with no idea what I was doing (as evidenced by the first word) but it turned into a kind of love letter to my student experience. 
> 
> FYI: the Arya/Gendry and Jaime/Brienne content in this fic is VERY minor, so if you're not into SanSan but in the mood for some lowkey subtextual attraction in the ship of your choice then feel free to only hit up the following chapters: 
> 
> Jaime/Brienne: 2 & 7  
> Arya/Gendry: 1, 2, 4 & 7

‘AAAAAYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!’ Arya let out a bloodcurdling scream into the frosty night.

‘Do you absolutely have to?’ asked Brienne, looking pained as she locked the front door of the cramped, messy, and somewhat mouldy townhouse she shared with Jeyne, Meera, Arya and Sansa.

‘DUH. It’s Bonfire Night. It’s the night we celebrate our heritage as a nation that thinks some bloke trying to blow up the entire government is an excuse for a good old-fashioned knees-up. Screaming is, like, mandatory.’

‘I don’t think Guy Fawkes screamed,’ observed Meera, pulling on a pair of gloves the same shade of green as her lovely fluffy jumper. ‘Or if he did, it’s probably the reason why he got caught.’

‘He bloody well screamed _after_ he got caught. Don’t you know what they did to him? He was tortured until he confessed, and then he was sentenced to have his knob cut off and burned before his very eyes, and then they were going to take his bowels –’

‘Can you not?’ said Jeyne, repulsed.

‘Er, we’re _supposed_ to talk about it,’ Arya pointed out. ‘There’s a whole poem about it. _Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot_ –’

‘Oh my God, no poetry,’ said Jeyne. ‘I’ve been subjected to T.S. Eliot all day, I do not need this shit in my free time.’

Arya, unbothered, whooped loudly and leapt into a pile of dead leaves. She was in her usual going-out attire; combat boots, a scruffy old military jacket, and an entirely too-short skirt baring skinny legs that didn’t seem to feel the cold. Her concession to her friends’ encouragement that she ‘glam up’ was the addition of black nail polish, black eyeliner, and black lipstick.

Brienne shook her head. ‘I’m going to be on full Mum Friend duties tonight, I can tell.’

‘When aren’t you?’ enquired Asha, attired in a pair of leather trousers she had recently obtained from a boot sale, and walking with a considerable strut. ‘Feck being the responsible one, Brie. It’s a night out. Why don’t you sack off your conscience for the evening and get as pissed as the rest of us? Who knows where the evening might take us if no one is shepherding us into a taxi at two AM? I for one would like to find out.’

‘Well I wouldn’t,’ said Brienne. She was dressed in a resolutely sensible manner – thick jeans, big sturdy coat, and big sturdy boots. As ever, she wore no makeup, but Margaery had waylaid her in the bathroom with a few products and her hair was now bleached white-blonde and slicked starkly back from her face. From the neck up, she was Tilda Swinton. Neck down, Alan Titchmarsh.

‘Why not?’ asked Margaery, resting an exquisitely manicured hand in the crook of Brienne’s elbow. ‘You’ve been writing essays all week, same as the rest of us. You deserve a break too.’

‘Yes, but tonight isn’t about me,’ said Brienne pointedly.

Six pairs of sympathetic eyes came to land on Sansa. Well, five pairs. Arya’s eyes were too busy rolling, since she wasn’t particularly sympathetic. She was in fact feeling extremely vindicated, albeit impatient with the way Sansa was moping about as if she was in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

‘How are you feeling, Sansa?’ asked Jeyne, putting her Primark-clad arm around her friend.

‘I’m fine,’ said Sansa mechanically. She was staring at a decorative scarecrow that someone had placed in their front garden in a fit of autumnal cheer. Nobody was fooled by her words. Although she was as pretty as ever in her tailored blue coat and grey boots with her face made up immaculately, her sadness was palpable.

Arya couldn’t understand it. How had she been the only one to see this coming? Harry Hardyng eventually leaving Sansa for another bird had always seemed as inevitable as breathing, or the seasons changing, or the jacket potato Arya would devour later on this evening, hot and crispy and wrapped in foil, pulled from the depths of the bonfire like a dragon’s egg. She rubbed her stomach in anticipation. Food was much more interesting than Sansa’s love life. But the fact remained that just as Harry had dumped Myranda Royce as soon as he caught a glimpse of Sansa, so too had he ditched Sansa now that an exciting new prospect had turned up.

‘What’s her name again?’ Arya asked, pulling the little bottle of Red Square vodka out of her pocket and taking a wince-inducing swig. She had put some Ribena in there to try and sweeten it up a bit. The effects were unpleasant in a way her taste buds had never previously experienced.

‘Arya,’ Brienne said in a warning tone.

‘What?’ said Arya. ‘I know it’s stupid. Paprika, or Cinnamon, or something like that.’

‘Saffron,’ said Sansa dully.

‘That was it! Proper stripper name.’

‘Which makes sense, because she is in fact a stripper,’ said Margaery. ‘Honestly, Sansa, he’s no loss if he’s stupid enough to go after her. She probably saw him coming a mile off. Once she’s taken him for all she can get he’ll probably find out she’s got a big scary bouncer boyfriend. I give it a month before he comes crawling back with a black eye, begging you to take him back.’

‘And you won’t, if you have any sense,’ said Asha. ‘A black eye won’t be the only malady he’ll come crawling back with.’

‘Asha, don’t slut-shame,’ said Jeyne, who was studying English Literature and had been constantly tweeting about #Feminism ever since she attended an hour-long lecture on it last year. From the way she was always banging on about body positivity, you’d never know she used to refer to Arya as Horseface. ‘Just because she’s a stripper doesn’t mean she’s diseased.’

‘For the purpose of cheering up Sansa, yes it does,’ said Margaery.

‘And it doesn’t count as shaming if I also identify as a slut,’ argued Asha. ‘Anyway, didn’t he pick her up at the Sleazy Geezer? That place is famously filthy. I should go down there myself, take a few swabs from the bathroom walls into the lab and see if the Bubonic Plague virus has resurfaced.’

Arya sniggered. She liked Asha. They had actually met in the lab in question; as an Engineering student, Arya had a healthy appreciation for seeing things explode, and she, like Guy Fawkes before her, had snuck into the Chemistry department to see if there was anything she could find to blow up. Nobody had seemed particularly amused by this particular escapade – apart from Asha. Had they been at uni together a few decades previously, they would have worked on building a small bomb to put under the Dean’s desk as an amusing lark. Unfortunately such things were frowned upon in twenty-first century England, the political climate being what it was.

‘Bloody Brexit,’ grumbled Arya, as she did whenever she thought about current events, however tangentially.

Margaery rolled her eyes and produced an engraved hip flask from the pocket of her designer coat, which she shoved into Sansa’s hands. ‘Drink,’ she said.

‘Moderately,’ added Brienne, who planned on joining the police force after she graduated and was incapable of being subtle about it.

Sansa sniffed at the flask delicately, and took a sip. ‘Is that –’

‘Blackberry gin, darling,’ said Margaery, passing the flask around the group. It was Tyrell’s gin, naturally. Margaery’s lavish lifestyle was made possible by the success of the family business, and she made sure to rep the brand in all her Instagram posts. Evidently her followers didn’t mind the unending barrage of advertising, as she had almost a million of them. Arya watched impatiently as she stopped walking to take a selfie.

‘You’re holding us up,’ complained Jeyne.

‘Oh, who cares?’ said Margaery. ‘An oversized campfire, a few burnt sausages and a five minute firework display – how will I _ever_ cope if we’re late? This night won’t get interesting until we hit the bar afterwards and you all know it.’

‘Disagree,’ said Meera. ‘We can go to a bar any night we like. Bonfire Night always makes me feel like a kid again. My brother used to say he saw visions in the flames, and he would go up to total strangers and tell them their destinies. Come to think of it, he still does that.’

‘You should have invited him!’ said Jeyne. ‘I’d love to know my destiny.’

‘I don’t think you’d like anything he had to say,’ said Meera. ‘It would all be about the mundanity of suburban existence. He’s been really up his own arse ever since he went backpacking in Patagonia.’

‘Not as up his own arse as Harry,’ said Brienne, determinedly good friend that she was.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Asha, producing her own hip flask, which was old and battered, inherited from her staunchly IRA-supporting dad, and almost certainly full of her own paint-thinner-esque homebrew. ‘Now let’s go stare at a fire and think sexy Pagan thoughts.’

‘About bringing down the government!’ yelled Arya.

As penniless students (Margaery being the obvious exception), the girls had collectively decided not to bother with the big fireworks show in the arena, as it would have cost them ten pounds apiece, plus a similarly exorbitant sum for snacks. Also it was much more likely that their bags would be searched and their booze confiscated. Instead, they had opted to head to the local park, where the Scouts and Guides were putting on a much smaller display for which they were only charging two quid each. Arya’s beloved bonfire jacket potato was there for the taking, along with charred sausages in buns, hot spiced apple cider, and gooey marshmallows which had been inexpertly skewered onto twigs by Scouts who were obviously more concerned with aesthetics than they were with both hygiene and basic fire safety.

Arya loved it all; the big bonfire with its licking flames, white-hot in the centre where the straw guy burned, dry warmth radiating powerfully into her face as she watched. The smoke billowed thick and grey into the velvety night sky, and Arya wondered what happened to it – did it disperse into nothingness in the sky (probably), or would it keep rising until it was in space (a much cooler prospect)? Asha and Meera would both have known, but she didn’t ask them; the spirit of the night left her content to wonder in silence, which was a comparatively rare phenomenon, as anyone who knew her would attest. Music was piping out from somewhere; some enterprising Scout or Guide had put together a fire-themed playlist, so they were treated to Burning Love, Burn Baby Burn, Sex on Fire, and other songs of that ilk.

The fireworks display was short, as Margaery had predicted, but Arya didn’t care. Fireworks were fireworks. Besides, it was nice to see all the little kids wrapped up so warmly they were practically spherical, staring up at the bright sky with wonder. There were sparklers too, and Arya used hers to write a vengeful curse upon all fuckboys who would wrong her sister, struck out into the air in glittering ephemera. Then she had just enough time to amuse herself by writing ‘BUM’ before the sparkler fizzled out.

At least Sansa was cheering up a bit – enough to actually talk, anyway. Margaery had given her liberal swigs of gin, Asha had passed the moonshine round, and now they were all clutching steaming cups of cider. The time was ripe to exorcise the demon of Harry Hardyng and cast him onto the bonfire.

‘I mean, I knew it would be difficult,’ Sansa was saying. ‘Everyone says sixth form relationships don’t last once you get to university. But why couldn’t he just be decent about it?’

‘Because he’s never been decent in his life?’ suggested Arya.

‘Like, if he had met a girl on his course and fallen in love with her, then it wouldn’t be so bad. Obviously I’d be upset, but you can’t argue with true love.’

‘I could,’ said Arya. Brienne shushed her.

‘It’s just so _humiliating_. I didn’t think this happened in real life. He’s off shagging bloody _Saffron_ like a horrible ex from a movie, but I never get any rom-com action. _I_ won’t meet Mark Ruffalo on a crowded train and learn the true meaning of Bonfire Night with a midnight kiss.’

‘Who says you won’t?’ said Jeyne. ‘I think Mark Ruffalo would really like you.’

‘If you want to get off with someone at midnight, I’m sure we can sort that out,’ said Asha. ‘You could get a new bloke in two seconds.’

‘Who?’ said Sansa. ‘Have you _seen_ the boys in the Law department? I can’t be with someone who uses the phrase _To play the devil’s advocate for a moment_ every five minutes. Who wants to advocate for the devil? His WHOLE THING is that he’s mean!’

‘I’m not talking about Law students, am I?’ said Asha. ‘Don’t shit where you eat. I’m talking about tonight. It’s admittedly pretty slim pickings at the Scouts’ bonfire party –’

‘But the fireworks are over and the bonfire is boring,’ said Margaery, giving them a glittering smile. ‘Ladies, it’s time to hit the bar.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery doesn't know what she's talking about. The bonfire is EXCELLENT. This one in particular is a fictionalised version of one I went to in Sheffield a couple of years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Bar’ wasn’t quite the right word for where they ended up.

The Bell dated back to the Tudor era, all half-timbered exterior, low ceilings, and yellowed portraits of previous landlords. It was full of open fireplaces, winding corridors and little alcoves, with several different rooms in which one might get blindingly drunk. Although hardly the kind of scene Margaery had been hoping for, it was a) the closest pub to the park, which counted for a lot on a cold night, and b) absolutely packed with similarly-minded Bonfire Night revellers – crucially, many of whom appeared to be both male and under thirty.

‘Right,’ said Asha, lowering a groaning tray of drinks onto the rickety corner table they had commandeered. ‘Three G&Ts, two pints, a cider and a whisky, and a lovely selection of shots courtesy of the Bank of Margaery. Here, Sansa, this one’s got whipped cream.’

Sansa obligingly downed the shot, ending up with a spot of whipped cream on the tip of her nose and looking annoyingly like a sexy ad campaign for dairy. Arya would have looked like a five-year-old. She pulled a face and downed a rather less elaborate shot, which regrettably turned out to be Sambuca.

‘So,’ said Margaery. ‘Take a look around, everyone. Are there any eligible gentlemen who might tickle Sansa’s fancy?’

‘That phrase is so gross,’ said Jeyne.

‘But accurate, if the night goes as planned,’ said Asha.

‘You mean if it goes as you and Margaery have planned,’ said Meera. ‘What are _your_ plans, Sansa? Do you actually want to get with someone, or would you rather just have a drink and a dance?’

‘No judgement,’ said Jeyne.

‘It’s your decision,’ said Brienne. ‘We’re here for you no matter what.’

Sansa looked very uncertain about the concept of having to make the decision herself. Stalling, she took a long drink of gin and stared down at the table. Arya shook her head. She and Sansa may have been worlds apart in many ways, but she suspected that in this respect at least they might have something in common. To Arya, the idea of getting pawed at by some random sweaty bloke you had met only hours before was nothing short of hellish. You couldn’t be sure he was a decent person – not in such a short timeframe. He might turn out to be a Millwall-supporting Tory with a loving girlfriend he’d conveniently forgotten to mention.

How could you even find someone attractive, before you really knew them? You’d want to know if he was intelligent and good with his hands; if he was stubborn and funny and kind. In the dim light of a pub, you wouldn’t even be able to tell if he had bright blue eyes.

‘TARTH!’

Arya was quite grateful to be yanked out of that particular train of thought. She watched Brienne go an interesting shade of red as a bloke who looked quite a lot like Prince Charming from _Shrek 2_ approached their table.

‘I thought that was you,’ he said easily. ‘Love the hair! Having a night off, I take it?’

Brienne funded her studies by doing door work for a security company at weekends. When asked how a shift had gone, she generally complained about drunk punters violently objecting to her refusing them entry to places with names like Pure and Escape and Sky. She had neglected to mention the fact that she apparently worked with Mr Universe.

Brienne mumbled something inaudible in response, curling in on herself as though the mere fact that this man had spoken to her was viciously humiliating.

‘What’s up with you?’ said Arya, baffled.

‘Nothing,’ Brienne hissed. She darted a glance up at the man, and wowed him with her charisma by saying, ‘Hello. Yes.’

‘Do the two of you work together?’ enquired Margaery, clearly intrigued and delighted by this turn of events. Brienne tended to avoid men as though they all carried a nasty wasting disease, and those she wasn’t ignoring, she was generally beating up, either at work or in jiu jitsu classes. Small talk was obviously new to her – especially with a bloke like this. He looked like he’d been PhotoShopped.

‘Not usually,’ he said, smiling. ‘Jaime Lannister. I’m a Detective Inspector, and I met Brienne when I needed witnesses for a stabbing a couple of months ago. The victim would be dead if it weren’t for her. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.’

‘We have NOT!’ said Asha, thumping the table and rattling everyone’s glasses. ‘Brienne, you bloody dark horse! You only said you answered a few questions!’

‘A few questions?’ Lannister snorted. ‘She basically body-slammed the attacker. It was a wonder to behold.’

Brienne went an even darker shade of red as everyone gasped and exclaimed at her. ‘It’s just my job,’ she mumbled.

‘Well I hope they gave you a raise,’ said Lannister.

‘It certainly calls for another drink,’ said Margaery. She raised an eyebrow at Lannister and nodded pointedly at Brienne. ‘Would you like to join us?’

Lannister looked at Brienne too. She was staring fixedly at the table. He exhaled softly, smiled and shook his head.

‘I’d better not. I’m here with colleagues and if I sit here they’ll come over to join us and attempt to chat you all up – and believe me, that’s not something you want. But I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Tarth. It’s a rough old stretch of road where you work, with an awful lot of crime. Good thing you’re there to defend it.’

He squeezed her shoulder, and vanished into the crowd.

‘BRIENNE!’ said Margaery. ‘That man is a walking cologne advert and you didn’t even look at him! Why didn’t you invite him to sit down?’

‘I can’t do that!’ hissed Brienne, looking both furious and terrified at the very thought. ‘He’s a DI!’

‘He’s a guy in a pub!’ said Asha. ‘Who cares what he does in the day? In the evening he goes out for a drink same as anyone else.’

‘And he obviously fancies you,’ added Jeyne.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Brienne desperately. ‘Stop it.’

‘He does,’ said Margaery. ‘If you’d bothered to look at him, you might have noticed.’

‘He didn’t even glance at the rest of us,’ said Asha. ‘And look how low-cut Margaery’s top is. _And_ he said he liked your hair.’

‘I bet he’s a good shag,’ said Margaery.

‘I don’t know… hot guys often don’t bother to put any effort in.’

‘Yes, but he’s a detective. He likes to get to the bottom of things.’

‘I bet he does!’

‘Imagine the babies they’d have. Blonde muscly giants.’

‘Vikings!’

‘He seems very nice, Brienne,’ Sansa was saying quietly. ‘And I could tell from how he was with you that he respects you an awful lot.’

Brienne looked to be on the verge of either bursting into tears or overturning the table and sprinting from the pub, and Arya had had enough. She took in a gulp of air and let out a disgustingly loud belch. The girls fell silent, and all eyes were on her, looking (for the most part) thoroughly unimpressed.

‘We’re not here for Brienne,’ she informed them. ‘She’s not on the rebound, and she’s got a nine AM lecture tomorrow. We are here for Sansa. Besides, if DI Lannister _detects_ Asha’s bathtub moonshine setup, we’ll be in big trouble.’

‘Shite. Didn’t think of that,’ said Asha. ‘Good shout.’

‘But Sansa still hasn’t told us if she even wants to be on the rebound,’ said Jeyne.

Sansa sighed dramatically, and attention was back on her once more. The look Brienne gave Arya was one of bottomless gratitude, and Arya wiggled her eyebrows in response. Pretty girls just didn’t understand.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sansa. ‘I mean, I’ve only ever slept with Harry. I’m not sure one night stands are my thing.’

‘You’re at uni,’ said Margaery. ‘If you’re not sure, now is the perfect time to find out. Look at Asha – she’s done plenty of experimenting, and I don’t just mean in the lab. Remember Daenerys?’

‘Does she count as experimenting? I knew exactly what the result was going to be.’ Asha examined her brutally short fingernails with a smirk.

‘Oh,’ Sansa looked startled. ‘Well, I don’t think I want _that_.’

‘If you did, you’d be in the wrong place,’ said Asha. ‘Look around you! Blokes as far as the eye can see. Take your pick, or we’ll choose for you.’

‘I think I know who she’s going to pick,’ said Jeyne. ‘Look over there.’

Obediently, everyone looked. It was immediately obvious to whom Jeyne was referring. Standing at a high table by the bar was the prettiest prettyboy Arya had ever seen in real life, with the possible exception of Margaery’s gay brother. This guy had blonde curls, cruel eyes and sneering red lips, and he was surrounded by a crowd of the sort of shouty drunken dickheads who hassled Brienne at work every weekend.

Arya would sooner have eaten her own vomit than let him lay a finger on either herself or her sister. The reaction was visceral, instinctive; there was just something about him that screamed to her that he was sadistic and selfish and mean. He was exactly the kind of wanker she had tried to ward off with her sparkler, and she knew he’d be no good for Sansa. Unfortunately, everyone else had already latched onto the idea.

‘There you go,’ said Asha. ‘He looks like Harry, but skinnier and blonder.’

‘Exactly your type, right, Sansa?’ said Jeyne.

‘I know him,’ said Margaery. ‘His name is Joffrey, he’s in my International Business Ethics class. He’s _loaded_ , Sansa. If you talk to him we’ll be drinking for free for the rest of the night.’

‘For the rest of the semester, if you play your cards right,’ said Asha. ‘Jesus, look at that popped collar. Not my cup of tea, but to each her own.’

‘Let’s forget about the money for a second,’ said Meera. ‘Is he _nice_ , Margaery?’

While Margaery formulated a diplomatic answer, Arya cast her eyes frantically around the room.

She trusted her gut. She always had, and it had never steered her wrong yet. If her mind was flashing a neon sign saying BAD NEWS above Loaded Joffrey’s stupid head, there was a bloody good reason. But Asha, Margaery and Jeyne were persuasive, and Sansa was susceptible; and while she might not have been looking for a one night stand, the prospect of flirting with a rich Business student would inexplicably perk her up more than the bonfire or the booze ever could. And he would be interested in Sansa and ask her out, because of _course_ he would, and then they’d all be stuck with him for who bloody knew how long until he – inevitably – dicked her over.

Arya couldn’t let that happen. Her only alternative was to find another bloke who would appeal to Sansa even more, but it was looking like Joffrey was both the prettiest and the richest boy in the general vicinity. The only option was to go in the other direction entirely.

Everyone knew Sansa loved prettyboys. Harry Hardyng had been exhibit A, but there had also been the extensive One Direction obsession, the Jonas Brothers phase, and the Zac Efron poster. However, Arya had a feeling that nobody except for her knew about the other end of the spectrum of Sansa’s tastes; she wasn’t all pastels and baking and teen idols. She had reread _Jane Eyre_ and _Wuthering Heights_ more times than Arya could count. When they had first watched _Beauty and the Beast_ as kids, she had had a tantrum when the Beast turned into the stupid prince at the end because she was so disappointed. And under cover of her baby blue noise-cancelling headphones, Sansa listened to a hell of a lot of Nine Inch Nails.

If Arya could just find someone a bit gothic and brooding, she was sure she could eliminate Joffrey from the proceedings. Now was the perfect time – Sansa would never consider someone so non-mainstream for an actual _relationship_ , but a rebound fling would be the perfect opportunity to dip her toes into the scary world of unfeminine men from a nice safe distance. But was there anyone in here who would fit the bill? Someone who looked dangerous enough to listen to Metallica and punch the walls when he got mad, but not so intimidating that there was a chance Sansa would get chopped up with an axe? Arya scanned the room on high alert, and when her eyes landed she couldn’t believe her luck.

_Jackpot._

‘So it’s not that Joffrey’s not _nice_ ,’ Margaery was concluding. ‘He knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. Which I personally think is a good thing. Don’t you?’

Nobody was looking totally convinced. Arya seized her moment.

‘What about the bloke to the left of the bar?’ she asked innocently.

Six heads obediently swivelled and took in the bloke in question. Five voices promptly erupted in protest.

‘The massive guy in the leather jacket?’ Margaery spluttered with laughter. ‘We’re trying to find someone for _Sansa_ , not for you.’

‘He looks older,’ observed Meera. ‘And I can’t quite see in this lighting, but – are those scars on his face?’

‘Look how long his hair is,’ said Jeyne, with a face like a lemon’s arse. ‘Why doesn’t he put it in a man bun? It isn’t the nineties any more.’

‘And where are his mates?’ Asha cackled. ‘Is he just… standing in the darkest corner he can find, drinking on his own? Who does that?’

‘He looks angry,’ said Brienne. ‘I don’t know if he’s the kind of person Sansa wants to be talking to.’

Their objections were irrelevant, and Arya was feeling very pleased with herself indeed. Sansa was staring at the man as if transfixed. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks were pink, and one hand played unconsciously with her hair.

‘I’ll just go up and say hello,’ she said breathlessly, and practically bolted from the table.

‘What the FUCK?’ said Asha. They watched uncomprehendingly as Sansa walked up to the giant man and said something.

‘Do you know him?’ Margaery demanded, wheeling round to stare at Arya.

‘Nope,’ said Arya smugly, tilting her chair back and taking a gulp of beer. ‘But I know my sister.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a very real struggle not to have Arya say 'I know my sister LIKE I KNOW MY OWN MIND.' Eventually Hamilton consumes us all. 
> 
> The Bell is inspired by the pub of the same name in Nottingham, and the skeevy stretch of road where Brienne works is based on a certain (dodgy) part of Portsmouth where I have got pissed too many times to count. We're really hitting all the hotspots of my student life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief and abstract discussion of sexual assault.

‘Hi.’

Pulled abruptly from the Seat of Despair he was inhabiting in the Buffet Car of Dread on his miserable train of thought, Sandor looked blankly down at the girl in front of him.

‘Am I in your way?’ he grunted. She giggled.

‘No. I’m Sansa.’

‘Right,’ said Sandor. She seemed to be waiting for him to do something, but he had no fucking clue what that might be.

‘And you are…?’ she prompted.

‘What? Oh. Sandor.’

‘Are you here on your own, Sandor?’

‘Waiting for a mate,’ he said.

‘Is he late?’ the girl asked, and he nodded, scowling. ‘Then perhaps I could keep you company while you wait?’

Sandor exhaled loudly and gave her a look.

‘Whatever you’re charging, I can’t afford it, so move onto your next mark, all right?’

Rather than flouncing off in a huff, her mouth fell open and she started giggling. ‘Do you think I’m a – a _lady of the evening_?’

‘… Aren’t you?’

‘No!’ she laughed, slapping him lightly on the arm, her hand lingering slightly longer than it needed to. ‘I’m here with friends. See?’

She gestured towards a table of girls who were all watching him avidly.

‘Sure that big blonde one isn’t your madam?’

‘Do you know, I’m absolutely positive,’ said the girl. ‘We’re students! Do I _look_ like I’m trying to sell myself?’

For the first time, Sandor took a good look at the girl he’d been casually insulting, and realised just how attractive she was. She could’ve charged for it if she’d wanted to, with that body, that face, and her long shining hair the colour of copper wiring. But she wasn’t dressed like a prossie; she looked snug and comfy in a grey-green jumper-dress thing, and she wore a little silver cross on a fine chain around her neck.

‘No, you don’t,’ he conceded.

‘Good,’ she smiled up at him. ‘Not really the first impression I want to give, to be honest.’

‘You sure? It’s a hell of a way to make a few hundred quid.’

‘Yes, I’m sure!’ she said. Another light slap, this time to his chest, and still her touch lingered.

‘Right,’ said Sandor, thoroughly baffled by her attention but willing to roll with it. He wasn’t a complete idiot. ‘Do you want a drink?’

The girl – Sansa – gave him a dazzling smile. ‘A G&T, please. And the next round is on me.’

Their drinks were mercifully quick to materialise; Bronn saw Sandor, raised his eyebrows at Sansa, and served him far more swiftly than he strictly should have according to British Queuing Guidelines. The price Sandor paid for such expeditious service was having to listen to Bronn go ‘PHWOAR!’ every few seconds as he poured, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. Bronn was just that sort of bloke.

‘Thank you,’ said Sansa, smiling up at him as he handed over her drink. She clinked her glass against his. ‘Cheers.’

‘Why did you and your mates end up here, then?’ Sandor asked. ‘Not usually many students in here. Mercifully.’

‘So rude,’ she admonished him, although she seemed amused by his acidity. ‘We went to see the bonfire and fireworks at the park.’

Sandor snorted. ‘Bloody Bonfire Night. Spare me. Don’t you have better things to do than marvel at fire like a cavewoman?’

She opened her mouth to counter, but fell silent, and he knew why; the burns on his face were pretty fucking obvious, even in this lighting. Perfect. Time to tiptoe around The Scar Conversation for the umpteenth time.

‘I don’t, actually,’ she finally said. ‘My sister’s a little pagan. She doesn’t just marvel at the fire, she dances around it chanting some sort of curse. We’ve been writing essays for weeks too, and now they’ve all been handed in, so it’s nice to come out and blow off some steam. And besides…’ she took a fortifying gulp of gin, and dragged the toe of her boot along the floorboards, ‘I’ve just been dumped.’

Well, that explained a lot. Now that she’d said it, he could see it; there was a softness and sadness to her like she’d stepped out of an old painting. It almost suited her in a weird way, but he liked her laughter better.

‘Is that why you came over to talk to me, then?’ he asked.

‘No!’ she said indignantly. ‘I came over to talk to you because I think you’re very handsome.’

Sandor was about to call bullshit, to snap at her out of pure reflex, but he was halted by the way she clapped her hands over her mouth, clearly embarrassed by what she had said, and looked up at him with wide eyes and blushing cheeks.

Bloody hell. She was serious.

She needed her eyes testing.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not usually so forward,’ she said, smiling at him through her fingers. ‘I’ve just had quite a lot of _gin_.’

‘I bet you have,’ he said, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Come on, then. Tell me about the dickhead who dumped you.’

Her ex was called Harry, Sandor learned. They had been together since they were sixteen, and she had thought they would get married. She had never been with another bloke. Harry had gone to university down in London while she had come here, but they had talked over Skype and seen each other over the holidays, and Sansa had thought a bit of emotional distance was normal, as surely it came hand-in-hand with the miles between them.

‘But then yesterday I got the phone call,’ she said, more to the floorboards than to him, ‘and he just… out of nowhere. Called things off. He said it wasn’t fair not to tell me. He slept with someone else. And he said he’s in love with her.’

‘Shit,’ said Sandor. ‘That’s rough.’

‘I asked him who she was,’ said Sansa, gaze lifting to look him piercingly in the eye. ‘And he _really_ didn’t want to tell me, but I made him. I told him he owed me after we’d been together for so long. It turns out that my boyfriend was not just going to pubs and clubs on a night out. He was also regularly attending… _private gentlemen’s establishments_.’

She was fucking cute. It was difficult to keep his face looking serious, but Sandor managed it. He could guess where this was going.

‘The girl he has left me for,’ she concluded loudly, ‘is a twenty-four-year-old _stripper_ named _Saffron_.’

‘Saffron?’ said Sandor. ‘She sounds expensive.’

‘Well, that’s what all my friends say! Asha said she’s just using him for money and she’ll dump him soon, but that just makes me feel even _worse_. How could he leave me for someone like that? I thought he loved me.’

Her voice had shrunk to almost nothing, and she was biting her lip. Sandor stamped on the absurd urge to put his arm around her. He had never been presented with a damsel in distress before, and was ignorant of the correct etiquette. Maybe she wanted him to challenge her ex to a duel. Fuck it, he could do that. He was pleasantly buzzed from the whisky and her attentions, and she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in real life.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head and trying out a smile. ‘I didn’t mean to bring down the mood. Let’s talk about something else.’

Sandor grimaced. He knew he had to say something nice. It was a great trial that he would only endure because she was so very lovely.

‘Look, you’re both young. You’re students. Young people do stupid shit, and it’s better that way. Or else it would happen ten years down the line and even more marriages would be ruined. You look like you’ve never done any stupid shit in your life. You’ve been in a relationship since you were sixteen, for fuck’s sake. And I bet you’re studying something practical with a good career path.’

‘Law,’ she admitted, and this time her smile was more genuine, albeit guilty.

‘See? You’re even wearing sensible clothes on a night out. If you carry on at this rate you’ll explode by the time you’re thirty-five. Shave your head – which would be a crime, by the way – and quit your job and run off to a yoga retreat in India, and end up shagging some dirty hippie with smelly dreadlocks. Meanwhile at home, the dog’s gone blind because no one can find his eye drops, and your kids are screaming because their weeping dad doesn’t know how to arrange their fucking chicken nuggets on the plate in the way they like.’

Sansa burst out laughing, and he found himself smiling. He didn’t know how he was doing so well with her. It felt like he’d rolled a 20 on charisma – although it would certainly be undone if he made a comment like that out loud.

‘You’re painting a very vivid picture,’ she told him, eyes sparkling. ‘Oh, my poor blind dog. I should have got a pet passport and taken him with me.’

‘It’s too late for that now,’ said Sandor. ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is that although your ex is a wankstain and a moron who almost definitely didn’t deserve you –’

‘Why only almost?’ Sansa interjected playfully.

‘You’ve blinded a dog, woman! You’re no saint yourself. No, my point is that Harry actually did you a favour. Nobody should marry the first partner they ever have. And being single has got to be a lot of fun for a pretty girl at university. Fucking embrace it. Make some stupid decisions of your own.’

He hadn’t meant to sound quite so suggestive, but judging from the way Sansa was eyeing him up she obviously didn’t mind.

She kept her word and insisted on getting the next round in, though Sandor was sure Bronn undercharged her for it. Bronn also conveniently spent his break chatting up Sansa’s mates rather than having a pint with Sandor in their usual custom. Sandor couldn’t say he minded the change of pace. It was a hell of a better way to spend Bonfire Night than his normal ritual of staying indoors and getting drunk in front of a Nicolas Cage movie marathon.

He asked her what her favourite Cage movie was –

‘Oh, do you know the one from the nineties where he’s a cop who wins the lottery and falls in love with a waitress?’

‘It doesn’t fucking count as a Nic Cage movie if he doesn’t freak out and start screaming at the wind, and what the hell do you mean you haven’t seen _Con Air_?’

\- and told her about his job –

‘Ooh, construction! That explains why you’re so big. Do you have to get up ridiculously early?’

‘Most days, yeah. I’ve got tomorrow off though. Got to go to the vet to pick up the dog I’m rescuing.’

(Her eyes practically turned into cartoon hearts. After stepping closer to see a photo of the as-yet-unnamed dog in question, she did not move away.)

\- and she told him about her career plans.  

‘I’d really like to go into criminal law, with a focus on sexual assault cases. The conviction rate is shockingly low. Ultimately I’d like to become a judge, because that’s who determines the whole atmosphere of the courtroom. I want to lead by example with harsher sentencing, so that more victims feel able to prosecute.’

Sandor thought back to the sad, broken string of victims and witnesses at Gregor’s trial. In the end, Sandor hadn’t had the guts to come forward about his scars, but it hadn’t mattered. His big brother was in prison for life. Everything he had done to the Martell family had seen to that.

Sandor forced his attention back to the girl in front of him and made a stab at levity.

‘You’re tougher than you look,’ he told her. ‘They’ll give you your own show. _Judge Sansa_ , ITV at 3pm.’

‘I would never!’ she laughed. ‘I’m going to be a _classy_ judge, thank you very much.’

‘Aren’t you just,’ said Sandor. He was about to ask if she’d have to wear a big white wig when she stumbled into his chest, evidently having been shoved in the back by the lurching drunk guy behind her.

‘Watch where you’re going, dickhead,’ said Sandor flatly, his hands automatically taking Sansa’s shoulders to steady her.

‘Fuck off,’ slurred the kid, obviously a drunk student, all blonde curls and expensive clothes. ‘I could buy and sell you in five seconds, you ugly cunt. My God, did you faceplant into the bonfire?’

Sansa gasped, but Sandor’s years of therapy had done nothing if not teach him when not to throw a punch.

‘No,’ he said, bored. ‘But you might if you don’t fuck off.’

Too pissed to even attempt to weigh up the pros and cons of getting into a fight with a bloke twice his size, the kid leered at Sansa for a moment, muttered ‘Bitch,’ with unwarranted venom, and staggered off to the toilets.

‘Prick,’ said Sandor. He glanced down at Sansa, who was watching the unstable progress of the prick in question with troubled eyes. ‘Hey, don’t let him get to you. Just think, you’ll probably be sending him to prison in ten years’ time.’

‘Hmm? Oh, it’s not that.’ She gave him an apologetic look. ‘It’s just… he’s the guy my friends were trying to get me to go and talk to tonight. You know, to…’

‘Get back in the saddle?’ Sandor suggested. She nodded, shuddering. ‘Well, he’s not much of a horse. Destined for the glue factory, that one. Is that the kind of bloke you like, then?’

‘Of course not!’ she said. ‘I think I dodged a bullet. He was drunk and mean. And don’t you think he had wormy-looking lips?’

Sandor couldn’t say he’d noticed. He was, however, noticing the way Sansa was still pressed up against him, even though old Wormlips had long since fucked off. She was very, very pretty. She didn’t have wormy lips; they were soft and pink and enticing. He wanted to kiss her, but there was no chance he was risking that in the Bell, especially not while Bronn was in. It didn’t even matter whether or not she reciprocated; if he engaged in such an exuberant display in here, he’d never hear the end of it. The eponymous bell rang to announce last call, and Sandor opened his mouth to ask Sansa if she wanted another drink. Before he could make a sound, however, she uttered the most glorious sentence he had ever heard.

‘Would you like to come back to mine?’

Fucking hell. Even if she just wanted him to hold her while she cried over her ex, he wasn’t likely to get a better offer this century. Masking his surprise as best he could under the remarkable circumstances, Sandor nodded.

Sansa entwined her fingers in his and smiled up at him radiantly.

‘I’ve just got to tell my friends,’ she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is such a nerd.


	4. Chapter 4

Arya observed the expression on the scarred face of Sansa’s giant bloke with a great deal of amusement.

He had obviously banked on a quick _Hi, we’re leaving/Bye, use a condom_ sort of exchange, but that just proved how little he and Sansa knew each other. She had introduced him to everyone, and he had quite clearly been deeply uncomfortable, but had nodded and grunted in greeting. Sansa had then tried to discreetly tell Jeyne that she and this Sandor were going back to the house and could she please let everyone know after they’d left. Unfortunately for Sandor, Brienne overheard, and immediately leapt up and announced that she was ready to go home too, although her eyes said she wasn’t focusing on getting an early night so much as thinking about all those crime statistics she knew and whether or not Sandor was likely to contribute to them in the next twelve hours.

Arya decided to go as well – she had suggested this bloke, so no way was she going to miss her chance to redeem herself by fighting him if he turned out to be a twat. She felt personally responsible for whatever shenanigans the night might bring, and if she had to krav maga him into submission, so be it. Asha, Margaery and Jeyne were all heading somewhere called Scandals with Bronn the barman, who swore it was the best club with the lowest ceiling they would ever experience, and since Meera obviously had no desire whatsoever to join them, she too said she would come home. To his credit, Sandor made no protest against their less than subtle measures to ensure Sansa’s safety, and he merely shook his head at Asha and Margaery’s catcalls.

However, just one whispered comment from Bronn was enough to make Sandor’s face go white as paper. Determined to find out what had him so rattled, Arya loitered close behind him as they all made their way to the exit.

‘Sansa,’ she heard him mutter, tense as the strings on a new piano, ‘how old are you, exactly?’

‘I’ll be twenty next month,’ Sansa said. ‘How about you? Sandor?’

Arya accidentally walked into the back of him, because he had stopped in his tracks. Fortunately he was too distracted to pay her much attention.

‘Nineteen? You’re _nineteen_?’

‘Yes,’ said Sansa. ‘How old did you think I was?’

‘I don’t know… twenty-three?’

Sansa laughed. ‘But you knew I was a student.’

‘I don’t bloody know how old students are. I left school at sixteen when I joined the army.’

‘Does that mean you’ve killed people?’ Arya interjected.

‘Arya!’ said Sansa, appalled. ‘You can’t just ask people that!’ She turned back to Sandor. ‘I’m so sorry. She doesn’t really think before she speaks.’

Sandor was not paying much attention. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. ‘ _Nineteen_.’

‘It’s not a problem, is it?’ said Sansa. ‘If you thought I was twenty-three, that’s only four years’ difference.’

‘Four years goes a long bloody way when you’re a teenager,’ he grumbled. But he looked down at Sansa, who was holding his hand in both of hers and giving him the big doe eyes. Almost as though hypnotised, he said faintly, ‘It’s not a problem.’

Sansa beamed, and tugged his hand until he started walking. Arya snorted. She couldn’t fathom the idea of even _attempting_ to charm a bloke just by sort of smiling and blinking at him a bit, let alone having it work so successfully. If she tried that, Gendry would just ask her to share her weed since it was obviously potent stuff. Not that she’d ever WANT to try it on Gendry. It was stupid, and if he fell for it then so was he.

‘So what did you do in the army?’ Arya asked, hoping this would be a subtle question enough for her sister’s tastes.

‘Nothing I want to talk to you about, pipsqueak,’ said Sandor.

‘Why not? Is it because you were a cook who never saw combat, but you want Sansa to think you’re a big hero?’

‘No, it’s because it’s a bloody personal question,’ said Sandor. ‘Do I look like a cook to you?’

Arya scrutinised him. He looked like he had a chin-up bar in his bedroom and consumed all his food in the form of a protein shake.

‘No,’ she admitted, and then was immediately distracted by the sight of her favourite kebab shop. ‘Ooh, hang on everyone, I want cheesy chips.’

_Halal… Is It Meat You’re Looking For?_ was a pillar of the local community. It was run by Belwas, an enormously fat man whose ethnicity Arya had yet to determine, and it was the only kebab shop she had ever seen which included fried locusts on its menu. She had tried one at Belwas’ urging and it had actually been pretty good, if uncomfortably crunchy.

Belwas hailed her loudly. ‘Tiny locust girl! We doing liver and onions tonight, yeah? You want some?’

‘Since when do you sell that?’ said Arya.

‘Since always. Protein, innit? You want it deep fried?’

Arya did not. She talked Belwas down from the liver and onions thing and placed her usual order. She and Meera both got cheesy chips, and Brienne refused their cheerful offers to share with a somewhat nauseated expression. Sandor asked if Sansa wanted anything and she delicately declined, although Arya knew she would have devoured a box of chicken nuggets if she hadn’t been planning on a night of sexy and hopefully quiet romping with Mr Ex-Army.

‘Why were you on your own at the pub?’ Arya asked him. ‘Trying to pick up girls?’

Sansa had refused to sit in, so Arya was having to walk and eat. It was an art at which she was so well-practiced that she was even able to give herself a pair of soggy chip-fangs, through which she hissed at Sandor like a potato-y vampire. 

‘Is that how it looked, you little grotbag? I was waiting for Bronn. Unfortunately he got a bit distracted by your mates so now I have to make do with you lot. It’s a sad life.’

‘Would you rather be going home with Bronn, then?’ Sansa asked. She was doing her flirty voice, asking a question purely to get a compliment. Arya pulled a face and threw a chip with no discernible cheese on it at a nearby pigeon.

‘Well, he has got a cracking surround-sound set up,’ said Sandor. ‘And a sixty inch TV.’

‘Oh, in that case, I won’t trouble you any longer,’ said Sansa. ‘Go back to his and watch all the Nicolas Cage films you can handle.’

‘Has he got _Face/Off_?’ said Arya, brightening. She gnashed on her fangs until they disappeared into her mouth.

‘Course he does. See,’ Sandor rounded on Sansa. ‘ _That_ is a proper Cage film. None of this rom-com bollocks.’ He turned to Brienne and Meera. ‘Come on, you two. Tell her. What are your favourites?’

Brienne admitted to liking _The Rock_ , and Meera controversially opted for _The Wicker Man_.

‘What?’ she said, laughing at everyone’s expression. ‘The original is a great film, and the remake is hilarious. Especially if you’re stoned.’

‘There you go,’ Sandor told Sansa. ‘All far better choices than yours.’

‘Well, I can see I’m keeping you from the wonderful night you had planned,’ said Sansa, pulling her hand from his and folding her arms.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got all the facts yet. What sort of set up have you got at your house?’

‘The TV has colour,’ said Arya. ‘And most of the time, the remote works.’

‘Looks like I’ll have to go with Bronn, then,’ Sandor told Sansa, shrugging. ‘You just didn’t make the cut. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course. It was very nice to meet you, Sandor,’ said Sansa politely, and she swiftly walked on ahead.

Sandor grimaced at Arya. ‘Have I cocked up?’

‘I’m amazed it took you this long,’ she remarked through a mouthful of chips.

‘We were supposed to be nice to her tonight,’ Brienne told him pointedly. ‘She has just been dumped.’

‘For a stripper,’ added Arya. ‘Literally yesterday.’

‘Didn’t she say?’ said Brienne.

‘Guys, she might not have told him,’ Meera said. ‘Honestly.’

‘Nah, she did,’ said Sandor, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound.’

He jogged ahead to where Sansa was walking and began to talk to her. If Asha had been there, she would have made an exuberant pun about Sansa being in for a pound, _waheeeeeyyyyy_. Arya considered saying the same thing in her stead, but ultimately decided she didn’t want to even contemplate her sister doing such things.

By the time she, Brienne and Meera caught up with the other two, Sansa was smiling and they were holding hands again. Knowing Sansa, the whole incident had probably been put on just so he’d say something nice to make it up to her. She had done that with Harry, and he had always fallen for it. He had never been the brightest spark – hence the stripper. Sandor seemed like he had a few more wits about him, but that didn’t mean he was above doing a bit of grovelling for the chance to shag a pretty girl.

‘All coming in, are you?’ Sandor commented when they got to the house.

‘We live here, dickhead,’ said Arya. His jaw clenched and she cackled.

‘All of you?’ he demanded.

‘All of us, plus Jeyne,’ said Brienne as she unlocked the door.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ said Sansa, quite blatantly pressing her boobs up against his arm. ‘Student accommodation is just so expensive. And my room is on the top floor, so it’s quite secluded, really.’

‘But not so secluded that we won’t overhear if you turn out to be a murderer,’ said Arya. ‘I’m on the top floor too. Me and Brienne will kick the door down, and krav maga and jiu jitsu your arse respectively.’

‘Would you stop accusing me of murder, you little gremlin?’ Sandor looked down at Sansa for a long moment, shook his head, and allowed himself to be gently guided into the house. ‘ _Nineteen_. Jesus Christ. I’m fucking thirty, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Hope you brought your pipe and slippers,’ said Arya. She took a last deep breath of cold, smoky autumn air, before slipping inside and locking the door behind her. She followed Brienne and Meera into the living room, hurled herself onto her favourite spot on the sofa and turned on the TV. _Naked Attraction._ Disgusting.

Sandor was sort of lurking in the hallway, understandably reluctant to sit down with a bunch of teenage girls he barely knew and look at six actual scrotums in low definition on their disappointingly small TV. Sansa obviously felt the same way.

‘Would you like to come and see my room?’ she asked him softly.

Sandor murmured something that Arya mercifully didn’t hear, as it made Sansa go very pink, and she watched the two of them ascend the narrow staircase with its green carpet seemingly unchanged since the seventies.

Feeling a little bit strange, Arya cranked up the volume on the TV and flicked through the channels in search of something that wasn't overtly sexual. As Meera and Brienne drifted up to their bedrooms, she eventually settled on _Die Hard With A Vengeance_ , which had a comforting amount of explosions.

Arya kicked off her boots and dug her phone from her pocket. She also retrieved the unfinished bottle of disgusting Ribena vodka, which she chucked onto the floor in contempt. Checking her phone, she saw that Gendry had sent her a picture of the little bonfire he and Ned and Tom had made. She would have been there too, had it not been for stupid Harry running off with a stripper. Sisterly support was more important than honouring your original plans, apparently. Arya sent Gendry a picture of Bruce Willis standing in the fountain with the bomb, and wrote:

_Stupid sister brought home a giant man from pub for a rebound shag_

_Can’t go in my room_

_Don’t want to overhear_

Gendry’s reply was a picture of his own TV, also showing Bruce Willis.

**Snap**

**Rebound is gross. How u get over someone that fast & just shag new bloke**

**Tell her 2 get tested**

Arya could still hear the happy sound of Bonfire Night revelry outside; the bang-rattle-screech of cheap back garden firework displays followed by drunken whooping, with the occasional siren thrown in. Gendry could hear it too, she knew; the same fireworks bursting into the sky over her house and his, while they watched the same movie not-quite-together. Grinning at her phone like an idiot, she snuggled up under her favourite blanket and began to write him a reply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting cheesy chips after a night out is a time-honoured British tradition. Shout-out to Ken's Fried Chicken in Portsmouth for only being edible while drunk. They know their market.
> 
> One of my housemates regularly used 'Come and see my room' as code for 'Let us now engage in tipsy fornication', and it never failed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa quietly locked her bedroom door, sequestering herself away with the most attractive man she had ever seen outside of covert Google Image searches for Trent Reznor in 1993. Intent on setting a mood, she replaced the glaring overhead light with the softer glow of her bedside lamp and chose an album by The National to play quietly on her phone. Not minding the cold, she opened the Velux window over her bed a little so she could see the city lights glimmering in the distance. Satisfied with her efforts, she turned to Sandor with a smile.

He was just so perfect, huge and tall, dominating her decidedly feminine bedroom with its fairy lights and pot plants and pink-and-white bedsheets. He wore boots, jeans, and a black leather jacket over a dark grey Henley. Harry had never dressed like that, even though she had always secretly hoped he would. Harry wasn’t anything like Sandor, who was strong and funny and looking at her with a mildly exasperated expression.

‘An attic room?’ he said. ‘Seriously? I’m six foot eight, woman.’

Sansa glanced at her sloping wall and bit her lip. She had admittedly hit her head on it more than once, and she was a full foot shorter than him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘For Arya too. If it helps, she’s like that with everyone.’

‘She’s nothing to apologise for,’ he said, shrugging. ‘This ceiling, on the other hand…’

‘You don’t like my bedroom?’ said Sansa primly. ‘I brought you up here just to show it to you.’

Eyebrows raised in amusement, Sandor took an exaggerated look around the room. ‘It’s _beautiful_ ,’ he told her sardonically.

Sansa smiled. He had a faint Brummie accent which was more pronounced when he said certain words; beautiful being one of them. She had never in her life thought she’d ever be attracted to a guy from Birmingham, but somehow Sandor was helping her to see the appeal. Harry had a very posh voice, which had automatically prejudiced the vast majority of her very northern family against him. It had been even worse when they’d found out he voted Conservative.

‘You’re not a Tory, are you?’ she asked Sandor idly.

‘Do I _look_ like a bastard Tory?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Just checking. Harry was. Well, is, I suppose. He’s not dead. Unless Saffron’s got some nasty friends…’

Her laughter stuttered and evaporated. Sandor took her shoulders in his hands and rubbed her upper arms gently.

‘Try not to think about that shit for now, all right? If you dwell on the depressing stuff when you’ve had a few drinks it just makes you cry or punch things. Sometimes both at the same time, which is pretty undignified.’

‘You sound like you’ve had some experience with this.’

‘Cry-punching? Oh, constantly.’

His tone was light and teasing, but Sansa thought perhaps she could sense something more serious underneath. The image of him in such torment was strangely captivating, and she found herself feeling all the more attracted to him. She didn’t want to even attempt to analyse why, but she had a strong suspicion that two out of three of the Brontë sisters were to blame.

Well, and Trent Reznor. Obviously.

‘I’m not trying to shut you up,’ said Sandor. ‘I’m not your boss. Talk about him if you want.’

Sansa did not want. Had she been complaining about her life not taking the form of a romantic comedy, earlier this evening? The universe had done her one better, and now that she and Sandor were finally alone, the night was shaping up to look like an old music video. Specifically, the one where Jon Bon Jovi cheats on his girlfriend so she runs off with the (much better-looking) artist guy who paints her picture. Sandor didn’t seem particularly artistically inclined, but she would happily trade the painting in exchange for not having her house burned down at the end. It was Bonfire Night – the fire had already happened. She took that as the universe’s way of telling her she was safe.

By the time this rambling train of thought came to an end, Sansa’s decision had been made. Really, it had been made the moment she had first clapped eyes on him in the Bell. First she took off her boots, losing a couple of inches of height and feeling all the more slender and feminine in comparison to the giant she had invited home. Then she reached for the nape of her neck and unclasped her silver cross.

Sandor’s eyebrows rose, and he whistled out a low breath.

‘I’ve got to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’m an atheist, and that did it for me.’

‘An atheist?’ Sansa gasped as though he had announced he was a murderer and stepped backwards. ‘Oh, you’re not, are you?’

‘Well, I mean… yeah,’ said Sandor. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Sandor, that isn’t the Lord’s way! I think it’s very important that you join me in prayer.’

Despite the assorted surprises he had faced this evening regarding Sansa’s age and living status, this was the first time Sandor seemed to be truly out of his comfort zone. He was eyeing her almost fearfully, as though she were a wolf with whom he had been locked in a cage. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed together tight, and when he next spoke, he chose his words slowly and with exquisite care.

‘Is that why you invited me back here? So we could… pray?’

Summoning the most innocent expression she could muster, Sansa asked, ‘Why else would it have been?’

Sandor’s jaw and fists clenched in tandem. He nodded his head slowly, and took several deep breaths.

‘Of course,’ he grit out eventually. ‘OK. I’m going to go, because you are _really_ not going to change my mind about this, and believe me when I say you don’t want to hear why. But… look, this whole tactic of picking up a bloke in a pub, bringing him home, and surprising him with prayer? It’s not fucking smart. It’s actually a hell of a way to get assaulted, which given what you’re studying, you should bloody know. I don’t give a shit how many martial arts your housemates can do, when there’s a locked door between you – why are you laughing? I’m – oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re joking.’

Sansa, who had been suppressing her amusement with increasingly difficulty, gave up and burst into giggles.

‘I’m sorry!’ she cried. ‘I’m such a bad liar, I didn’t think you’d believe me! But then you did, and I couldn’t resist.’ He looked absolutely infuriated, but she could see he was trying not to laugh. She sidled closer. ‘Did you really think I’d bring you here to _convert_ you?’

‘Seemed more believable than the alternative,’ he grumbled. ‘And you look the type. Butter wouldn’t bloody melt.’

‘You declined very politely,’ said Sansa playfully.

‘Yeah, well, that’s because even as an evangelical madwoman, you’re fucking cute.’

She smiled widely and bit her lip.

‘Right,’ said Sandor. Before she knew what was happening, he had lifted her up and pinned her bodily against the wall. Their faces were level, and her feet dangled helplessly a foot from the floor. 

‘Oh,’ she said, her voice coming out breathier than she had ever heard it. ‘Hello.’

He grinned at her, looking distinctly smug, and she knew it must be pretty obvious what she was thinking. She was almost dazed by him. He was the kind of handsome she had hardly even dared to look at in real life, let alone speak to, convinced she’d be laughed at for being naïve and loving romance novels and singing in a church choir. He was just so big, all hard and wide and muscly, supporting her entirely without wheezing or slowly turning purple the way Harry always had. Half of his face was dominated by the scarring, but it only made him look all the more strong and manly to her. She could feel him hardening, and the corresponding ache inside her own body was so desperate it was almost painful.

Her hands had landed on his shoulders, and she stroked them automatically. The leather of his jacket prevented her from having a proper feel, so she slipped her hands underneath it. He was solid and warm. Obviously understanding what she wanted, Sandor shrugged off the jacket one arm at a time.

His arms were _ridiculous_. He was cut like a superhero. Sansa had always liked skinny guys, but she was swiftly changing her mind. ‘Can I keep you?’ she asked, and then giggled at her audacity.

Sandor huffed out a laugh, shook his head, and leaned forward and kissed her.

It was different; that was her first thought. His mouth was gentler than Harry’s. There was no impatience, no mashing his lips too hard against hers, no poking her insistently with his tongue until she gave in and opened her mouth. Sandor kissed her slowly, almost sweetly, and she warmed up to him as surely and instinctively as if he had been a ray of sunlight soaking her body; an amusing thought, given his general disposition. She smiled into his kiss.

‘What?’ he murmured. ‘Still feel like praying?’

 _Only according to Madonna’s definition of the word._ Sansa wrapped her legs around Sandor’s hips; he ground into her and she sighed. The technical term for what they were doing, her mind pointed out helpfully, was frottage. Determined to put this hideous word out of her head, Sansa began to pluck insistently at Sandor’s Henley until he let her drag it off him entirely. It was exactly the kind of top she would steal from him if he were her boyfriend, and she knew she would look too cute in it for him to be annoyed. However, the best place for it at present was indisputably the floor.

Sandor was so well built it was almost absurd. She couldn’t believe she had found him in a cosy old pub when he clearly belonged onstage at one of the music festivals Arya liked to attend, or possibly behind glass in some sort of Museum of Hotness. Sansa’s hands strayed over his arms, his chest, his stomach (which consisted of enough rippling muscle to conceivably be used as a washboard if needed; always useful, especially in this economy). Her fingers tangled in the fine dark hair on his chest, and she buried her face in his neck, kissing and biting. He smelled clean and smoky and crisp, like the night air. Her lips landed on smooth skin and scar tissue with equal fervency, and a low groan escaped his throat.

‘Get this thing off,’ he ordered, yanking at her jumper-dress. ‘Bloody overdressed.’

Sansa pulled the offending article of clothing over her head until she was left in her bra, knickers, and tights. Although not generally considered a sexy garment, the black tights certainly seemed to have preoccupied Sandor; he ghosted his fingertips along her thighs and she wriggled against him.

‘Fucking hell,’ he muttered. ‘You look like a pinup girl.’

Flushed with pleasure, Sansa couldn’t help glancing down at her body, needing to feel beautiful and wanted in the wake of what Harry had done. Her hair fell in thick and shining waves across her white skin, starkly pale against the black of her underwear. She smiled at Sandor, and he pushed himself against her until she gasped.

‘Bed?’ he rumbled deep into her ear.

‘Bed,’ she agreed.

Sandor drew back enough to let her slide down to the floor. He glanced over at her bed, which was tucked underneath the sloping attic wall, gave her an absolutely filthy grin, and said, ‘You’re on top.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's room is based off my beloved student room in Sheffield, except hers is more ~aesthetic. Sadly I never brought home a sexy giant from the pub, but a woman can dream.


	6. Chapter 6

Feeling a little nervous but determined to hide it, Sansa walked Sandor backwards until his legs collided with the bed and he sat down on it, only very lightly bumping his head on the wall in the process. He kicked off his boots and dropped his jeans while Sansa shimmied out of her tights in the sexiest way she could manage. By the time she awkwardly climbed on top of him, they were both down to their underwear.

It was a strangely vulnerable feeling, straddling a man like this. Ostensibly, Sansa was in control – although she knew that really he’d be able to overpower her in a second if he wanted, which sent a light frisson of nervousness down her spine. But as it was, Sandor was laying on her bed as if in wait, looking all too comfortable leaning against her fluffy white cushions. The ball was very much in her court; she could do what she liked. But what did _he_ like? How was she meant to touch a guy she barely knew? She’d have to think of something soon or he’d probably think she really did just want to pray.

His enormous hands stroked up her back and she arched like a cat, practically purring. She felt him fumble with the clasp of her bra, and then swear and give up as she started rocking against him.

‘Take that off,’ he said. Ordered, really. Sansa didn’t mind.

‘Yes, sir,’ she sighed, thinking of Mr Rochester bossing Jane Eyre around as she reached behind her back.

‘Not a sir,’ he grunted, eyes on her chest. Sansa unclasped her bra, slid the straps down her arms, and tossed it over her shoulder. Her breasts were still covered by her long hair; a look she had always enjoyed, since it made her feel like a mermaid.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Sandor. He brought his hands to her chest and gently brushed her hair aside. Feather-light, his fingertips traced her. ‘Fuck. Your ex is going to be kicking himself when he realises.’

‘Realises what?’ Sansa breathed, hips softly undulating against his erection as little sparks seemed to shoot from where he stroked her nipples.

‘He can’t do better. Fuck. You’re like a Disney princess except you take off your clothes. Everything’s perfect. Your tits are fucking… Jesus Christ. Take your knickers off.’

Belly somersaulting, Sansa moved to obey. She had never been spoken to quite like that, and the state of the knickers in question proved just how much she liked it. Harry had been enthusiastic, but it had manifested through groping and panting and, ultimately, fluids. He had never been verbose; strange, really, that it should be this way round, considering Harry was studying Politics and Sandor… well, Sandor wasn’t studying anything at all, apart from her naked body. He was gazing at her with the same slightly glazed eagerness he might direct towards a particularly tantalising roast dinner.

Feeling more than a little eager herself, Sansa dragged at the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and Sandor canted his hips to help her. When they were both naked, her eyes strayed downwards. She caught sight of what he was packing, and a nervous giggle escaped her without her permission.

‘You’re not supposed to bloody _laugh_ ,’ Sandor complained.

‘I know, I’m sorry! I just, um… wow. Do you think it’ll fit?’

‘That,’ he said, his hand sliding up her thigh, ‘depends on you.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Sansa.

Still straddling his huge body, her weight pushing his blessedly proportionate cock flush against his stomach, Sansa braced herself on his shoulders and bit her lip as his rough fingers delicately parted her. Sandor’s thumb ghosted impossibly gently across her clit, back and forth, around in circles; endless shapes sketched across her nerve-endings with a touch that was nearly torturous in its lightness.

‘Is this going to get you there?’

Sansa’s eyes blinked open. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Is this good? Or do you need it harder?’ he demonstrated, and she moaned. ‘Or do you want me to finger you, or eat you out? What do you like?’

He was _filthy_ , talking like that, but in his low rumbling voice it sounded so good, like she wanted all of it.

‘Anything,’ she gasped. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Anything?’ echoed Sandor, thumb swirling faster and harder. ‘What’s going to make you come hardest? I want to hear you sing.’

‘I don’t knowwwww,’ Sansa groaned. In a form of truly cruel and unusual punishment, Sandor’s hands stilled.

‘You don’t know? Have you never –?’ Sansa sighed and shook her head, avoiding his eye. ‘For fuck’s sake. Your ex is a big old walking cliché, isn’t he? Did he ever even try to get you off?’

As much as Sansa would have almost preferred that to be the truth, she couldn’t pretend that it was – possibly out of some ridiculous desire to be fair to Harry, who was probably off shagging Saffron at this very moment without a care in the world. She took a breath.

‘No, he tried,’ she said, deciding it was less intimidating to look at Sandor’s (beautifully ripped) stomach, and petting it softly. ‘It wasn’t bad, or anything. I like sex. It feels good, and I want to, with you. I just never quite seem to… you know. I think it’s more difficult for women. Sometimes.’

Sandor was silent, and Sansa pressed her lips together, not daring to look him in the eye. She had disappointed him, she was sure. She wondered if this was why Harry had dumped her; if Saffron was capable of popping like a champagne cork, or squealing for twenty minutes like a pig. Whatever she was offering, it had to be better than hearing endless recitations of _No, it was really good, I promise, I liked it, I’d tell you if I didn’t._

God, why couldn’t she have found a guy who didn’t care about her pleasure? Of course Sandor would want to make her come; he was perfect. And now she had ruined it, and he was probably going to slink out and find someone better. Maybe she should have gone for horrid wormy Joffrey after all. He had looked like the sort of boy who believed the female orgasm was a myth.

‘OK,’ said Sandor. ‘I can tell you don’t want me to go on about it, so I won’t. But did you like what I was doing, before?’

Sansa peeped up at him and nodded.

‘Right. Good. We’ll get back to it, then. No pressure. And take that sad look off your face, or I’ll do it for you.’

Her eyes first widened then fluttered closed as his thumb returned to what it had been doing. She rocked her hips into his touch, sliding wetly along his erection.

‘Fuck, you’re gorgeous,’ she heard him growl as his spare hand cupped her breast. ‘You’re going to finish me off if you keep moving like that.’

It was just so good; his voice, his touch, the hard planes of his body under her hands, and now this sudden heady release of orgasm-themed anxiety. Sansa pressed herself harder against him, bathing in the way his breath and his touch both sped up. She felt hollow, aching; his cock was so big that wanting to fuck him almost felt like asking for trouble, and here she was begging for it. Sansa leaned over, yanked open the top drawer of her bedside table and rifled through it for a condom.

Sandor’s fingers stopped their dancing movements once again, and Sansa regained enough breath to quirk a brow at him.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me they’re too uncomfortable and you won’t wear them. This is non-negotiable. I know how far they can stretch. Arya put one on her head once.’

Sandor’s response was to reach a huge hand into her drawer and pluck out a pink cardboard box – unopened, with a set of batteries sellotaped to the side, along with a post-it note that said _If Harry can’t do it, maybe this can! ;) xoxo_

Sansa went bright red.

‘That’s – from Margaery,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve never opened it.’

‘I can see that,’ said Sandor. ‘How long have you had it?’

‘Um… a year?’ Or nearly, anyway. It had been the most inappropriate present she received for her nineteenth birthday, with the possible exception of the highly illegal mini-taser Arya had built for her.

‘And you’ve never tried it?’ said Sandor. Sansa blinked at him in confusion until she remembered they weren’t talking about the taser.

‘I thought… I didn’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know I sound ridiculous.’

‘Well, he didn’t have to _know_ , Sansa.’

Her name sounded very nice in his deep, gravelly voice. So did everything he said, really. Sansa was beginning to believe his true calling was in fact not construction, but forming a sort of Brummie Tom Waits tribute act.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’m just nervous.’

‘Would it help if I did the honours? You know, for bloody… moral support. Upstanding citizen that I am. I’d be willing to open the box and put the batteries in and everything. All the hard work. You’d just have to sit on my cock and squirm.’

Sansa didn’t know how he could talk like that without even a blush. Her entire body felt hot and needful, primed and stoked by his touch and his murmured words. He was looking at her as though he’d just got out of prison and she was the first girl he’d seen in twenty years.

‘If… if you want to,’ she said.

Sandor ripped the box open by way of answer. Sansa watched with trepidation as he locked in the batteries and switched on the toy. It buzzed alarmingly loudly. It wasn’t very big, especially in comparison to Sandor’s… everything, but the fact that it was made of quivering pink glittery silicon made the whole situation feel faintly obscene.

‘Now we’re cooking with gas,’ said Sandor, clicking the toy off and giving her a dirty grin. ‘Got your non-negotiable condom?’

She did. Wanting to knock him just as off-kilter as she was, Sansa ran her fingertips down his chest and stomach, raking him with her nails until he hissed. She took her time, slowly stroking and squeezing Sandor’s cock until all arrogance and coherence had deserted him and he was swearing and thrusting into her hand. Feeling more than a little smug, Sansa tore open the condom wrapper with her teeth. It was a move she had perfected out of necessity during those times when her acrylic nails were longer than was practical, but it always seemed to go down well.

‘Fuck,’ mumbled Sandor as she rolled the condom down, and then positioned herself over his cock.

Taking deep breaths, Sansa relaxed her body as best she could as she sunk down onto him. To say he was bigger than she was used to was something of an understatement. It was slow going, and a certain amount of tentative wiggling was necessary, but Sandor didn’t rush her and she was no quitter. He swore and stroked and squeezed and told her she was _hot_ and _tight_ and _too bloody much_ , and she rocked and writhed and squirmed until she had taken him all and was fairly gasping with the size of him.

His chest was heaving, his gaze so intense it almost looked angry. He was a work of art; his body an unusually well-endowed Greek statue, and his face the kind of unflinching modern portrait that was bordering on uncomfortable to look at, the hard chiselled lines of his features complemented and balanced by the blurring of his scars. Sansa wondered how he had got those scars (and the myriad others, smaller and decorating his arms and torso), but now was not the time to ask. Now was the time to have what was shaping up to be the best sex of her life.

Sighing as she leaned forwards and her movement shifted him inside her, Sansa put her lips to Sandor’s ear. Wanting to draw some more profane commentary out of him, she whispered, ‘Do you like it?’

‘I’d have to be bloody dead not to,’ he grunted, his hands finding her hips and squeezing her tighter against him. Sansa choked out a gasp. He was so thick, grinding against her pressure points without even having to aim. Absurdly, she noticed that the veins on his forearms stood out as much as those on his cock.

‘Oh, I like you,’ she moaned, rocking her hips until he swore.

‘You won’t in two minutes’ time,’ he said tightly, one hand casting desperately around on the bed. ‘Jesus Christ, where’s the fucking – here we go –’

There was a buzzing noise, his fingers fumbling, and then Sansa’s eyes went wide.

‘Oh,’ she said suddenly, fingers clenching on Sandor’s shoulders.

‘Good?’ he rasped up at her, grey eyes glittering.

Sansa’s mouth was open, but no words would come. Sandor was holding the toy against her clit, his hands unmoving, the vibrations doing all the work for him. It felt overwhelming, almost too much, but when she tried to wriggle away, the hand with the toy followed.

His fingers had been amazing, all varied speed and dappled pressure, but this was inexorable, inescapable; strong and impossibly fast and rapidly growing hot to the touch. For the first time, Sansa’s body seemed to be not just reacting, but building to something. The sensations were so intense that she was possessed by the involuntary urge to jerk back and try to analyse what was happening, to lead up to it gradually, but Sandor was having none of it. His huge rough hands kept her exactly where he wanted her, one pressing the toy in place, and the other guiding her hips as she rode him.

It was too good; his eyes fierce and feral and pinning her gaze to his, his cock hard and hot and throbbing, and the vibrations against her clit radiating through her body in all-consuming ripples. Little cries began to escape her; at first soft, but growing ever louder, with a high, desperate sound to them she had never heard herself make before. She bit her lip, trying to quiet down, but she couldn’t; the noises were being ripped from her mouth without her permission by the percolating pressure between her thighs.

Sandor grunted through clenched teeth; Sansa dug her nails into his shoulders and ground her hips down hard, and listened eagerly as he became louder, less restrained. It didn’t matter about her housemates or her sister or the open window; nothing mattered at all except for the two of them, like this. Legs aching, sweat running down her temples and back, she moved harder, faster, and still the relentless toy buzzed against her.

‘Fuck,’ Sandor muttered, eyes screwed shut and head tossing against the pillows. ‘Fuck, I’m gonna – I’m gonna –’

His words melted into groans; his cock spasmed, huge and thick inside her and he shook all over as he came. He was gorgeous, and helpless underneath her, face contorted and fingers digging hard into the flesh of her bottom. His other hand twitched, the toy shifted almost imperceptibly downwards, and Sansa felt her jaw drop.

_There._

‘OH,’ she said, her voice so loud and shocked it almost sounded sarcastic. But it very much wasn’t.

It was as though her body was a gong, and he had struck the very centre of it. The blow was reverberating through her from her clit outwards, all warmth and pleasure and wonderful vibrations. It was too strong, too much, she couldn’t stop. It was hot and perfect; her entire world boiled down to a pinpoint focus on the toy against her, on his cock inside her, on the electricity that seemed to be coursing through her in waves. He was underneath her and inside her, grunting as she gripped his shoulders and contracted tight around the size of him, grinding her hips hard as her moans pelted him like hailstones.

Very _loud_ hailstones.

Sansa blinked to her senses, aftershocks rolling through her, and guided Sandor’s hand and the buzzing toy away from her quickly, feeling impossibly tender and delicate and new. He clicked off the toy and tossed it aside, flopped his head back against the cushions and exhaled loudly, eyes closed and chest still heaving. Sansa covered her mouth with her hands and blushed, suddenly shy even though she could feel him slowly softening within her.

‘Fucking hell,’ Sandor said hoarsely, and pulled her down until she was cuddled against his chest. Sansa hadn’t really thought about the prospect of cuddling him, since she had been so focused on – to put it bluntly – getting that dick. But she had always loved snuggling up with Harry in the afterglow on those occasions when he had been amenable and not rushing off to the pub or his tennis lessons, so it came as a very sweet surprise that Sandor should want to hold her. It was damp and hot and intimate, and she nuzzled and kissed at his skin, sighing contentedly.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like this.

Sandor’s hands stroked slowly down her body, and she felt him kiss her hair. They would have to clean themselves up soon, she knew. He would gently withdraw from her body, and they’d chuck out the condom and have a quick wash – or maybe even a late-night shower. That would be nice. It would have to be done separately, though – there was no way they could both fit in the tiny cubicle, even entwined as closely as they were. And she would take off her makeup and brush her teeth, and they would get back in bed and he would hold her again, clean and warm and close. Or at least, she hoped he would. He wouldn’t leave after something so perfect, would he?

Shifting until she could see his face, Sansa gazed at Sandor and bit her lip.

‘You’ll stay the night, won’t you?’ she whispered.

‘Can’t move,’ he mumbled. ‘You’ve done me in. Jesus fucking Christ, you’re something else. Never seen anyone come so hard. Should put up a blue plaque on the house.’

Glowing with happiness, Sansa pushed her face into his neck, kissing and breathing him in. He was big and funny and sexy and he had made her come. She was _definitely_ going to keep him. Her hips rocked against him slightly, she felt him move a little within her, and she ran her fingers up his side.

‘Bloody hell, give me half an hour,’ Sandor muttered, stroking down her back and cupping her bottom. ‘I’m only one man.’

Perhaps they ought to get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teenage girls in this country are having VERY BAD sex. The solution is of course for you and your housemates to all buy vibrators for each other, which some of you will be too scared to use. The rest of you will be having the time of your life and graphically oversharing. Such is the way of student life.


	7. Chapter 7

Arya rolled over and stretched, and pulled her phone and earbuds out from underneath her body. Squinting, she saw that it was half nine in the morning. She’d had a few hours of sleep, then. She had eventually ventured up to her bedroom after she heard someone turn the shower on, praying that the night’s noisiest activities had drawn to a close. But just to be on the safe side, she’d plugged some white noise into her ears before she’d gone to bed.

Slapping her hair into a knot on top of her head, Arya sloped downstairs in her pyjamas, which consisted of trackie bottoms and a comforting-smelling old Metallica t-shirt she’d stolen from Jon. In the living room she was confronted with the sight of Asha, still wearing last night’s clothes and makeup, tangled up in a blanket and asleep on the sofa.

Arya plonked herself down on top of her and she groaned.

‘Wake up,’ said Arya, doing a few gentle bounces.

‘Feck off.’

Relenting, Arya got to her feet. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘God, yes.’

Brienne and Meera were already in the kitchen, showered and dressed and making breakfast like the perpetual early risers they were. Well, Meera was if she hadn’t been smoking, anyway.

‘Sleep all right?’ said Meera pointedly as she chucked fruit and kale in the blender.

‘Eventually,’ said Arya, flicking on the kettle and pulling a face. ‘ _Die Hard_ and white noise helped. What about you two?’

‘I think it’s the all-time loudest Enya has ever been played,’ said Meera.

‘Same here, but with Tracy Chapman,’ said Brienne. ‘I tried just wearing earplugs at first, but, well, my room is right underneath Sansa’s, and… it didn’t cut it.’

She looked faintly traumatised. It was understandable. Arya reached up and patted her on the shoulder.

‘At least it’s over with,’ she said bracingly, and began to root around for a couple of clean mugs.

‘I mean, are you sure it is?’ said Brienne. ‘They seemed to get on pretty well. Mostly. And it certainly sounded like they’re, you know… compatible.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ said Arya. ‘Imagine her introducing him to Mum, or dragging him to church to hear her sing. Not happening, mate. The worst is over.’

A few minutes later she returned to the living room with a lovely steaming mug of tea in each hand, and lightly kicked Asha until she shifted and made room on the sofa.

‘Ah, you’re an angel of mercy,’ said Asha, holding her hands out for her mug with the starved air of Oliver Twist begging for his bowl of gruel. ‘Jesus, am I hanging. Margaery can bloody drink. I think she’s got a hollow leg.’

‘You got in late,’ Arya observed. ‘I was down here til nearly three. Why are you even here, anyway? You have a house.’

‘Yeah, but it’s fecking miles off, isn’t it? Usually Margaery pays for the taxi, but she went home with Bronn, didn’t she, and forgot to cough up. And I wasn’t about to fork out a tenner to get to my own home.’

This was pretty standard from Asha. She had bypassed ‘sensible and thrifty’ long before they had met, and evolved into the moonshining kleptomaniac sponger they all knew and loved.

‘Jeyne was coming back here anyway, so I just popped in with her and then passed the fuck out. Didn’t spend a damn thing. Jesus, this is a good fucking cup of tea. There’s a career for you, if engineering doesn’t pan out.’

Arya poked her in the belly with her toe. ‘How was Sandals?’

‘What, the club? It’s Scandals, you knob. It was good actually. Bronn knows what he’s about. It’s a shame Margaery blatantly isn’t going to keep him around.’

‘Is he not Instagram-friendly enough?’ asked Meera, settling down on the floor with her back to the radiator, disgustingly green smoothie in hand.

‘You saw him. Had his nose broken a few too many times, hasn’t he? Plus he’s scum.’

‘Thought you said you liked him,’ said Arya.

‘Course I did. I’m scum too, and scum recognises scum. If that man’s ever paid a penny in taxes then I’m Theresa May.’

‘Bloody Brexit,’ Arya grumbled.

‘Anyway, where’s your sister?’ said Asha. ‘Sleeping off the monster dong? She was looking at that big fucker like she was going to eat him. Never knew she had it in her. Well, she definitely had it in her last night. Waheyyyy!’

‘You’ve perked up,’ said Arya sourly. She did not want to have to think about the monster dong in question. With any luck, that big fucker had slunk out in the middle of the night like a cat, and Sansa would just come down, blush a bit and go back to normal. She’d probably have a pretty new boyfriend within the fortnight.

‘We haven’t heard them move yet,’ said Brienne, settling down with a bowl of yogurt, fruit and granola. ‘And hopefully it stays that way until I’m out of the house. Did you not hear them at it?’

‘I was dead to the world, Brie. And if they were still going by the time I got in, more power to them. Well, mission accomplished, right? Rebound achievement unlocked. And Margaery fucked Bronn too. A productive night all round. Who shall we get laid next?’

‘How about you, if you’re so invested in it?’ said Arya grumpily. ‘You don’t half chat shit when you’re hungover.’  

‘I’m shagging my dealer. You know, Qarl from the lab. I only did it for the free weed, but he’s actually pretty good. Fecking flattened me the other day.’

‘Shhh!’ said Meera suddenly. ‘I think they’re up.’

True enough, they could hear footsteps and voices descending the creaky stairs. Obviously Sandor had stayed the night.

‘Morning, everyone,’ said Sansa, gliding into the living room on wings of airy just-been-shagged smugness. She was clad in mint-green pyjamas with lace trim, which Arya knew for a fact were the only ones she owned that didn’t have either Pusheen the cat or the Cookie Monster on them. Behind her, Sandor was fully dressed apart from his jacket and boots, looking sort of languid and fuzzy around the edges, as though all of his grumpiness had been sucked right out of him.

Hideous.

‘Oh great, the gang’s all here,’ he remarked. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t get to say goodbye.’

Maybe not _all_ the grumpiness was gone, then. He probably had a bottomless well of it.

‘We live here, dickmouth,’ said Arya. ‘Unlike you.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Sansa asked him, gazing at him as though there was no one else in the room. As far as she was concerned, there probably wasn’t. There was a reason Sansa had never been single in her life, thought Arya resentfully, and it was her tendency to home in on the nearest available bloke and cling to him like a baby monkey.

‘What I want is a fucking gallon of black coffee,’ said Sandor. Sansa set to it like a 1950s housewife, all smiley and dreamy. She was even humming to herself, for fuck’s sake. Sandor sat down on the only free seat in the room, which happened to be next to Brienne. Her nostrils flared and she eyed him like an angry horse.

‘What?’ he said. ‘I didn’t murder her. Look at her. She’s fine.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Asha, grinning. ‘Judging from what everyone seemed to overhear last night, you murdered –’

‘Stop talking,’ ordered Brienne, having correctly anticipated the next two words.

Asha sniggered. Sandor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, in and out.

‘Teenagers,’ he muttered. ‘Jesus Christ. Remind me how in the hell I ended up here?’

Everyone glanced up at Sansa in response. She emerged from the kitchen smiling and illuminated by a rare November sunbeam, and handed him the biggest mug they owned, brimming with steaming coffee.

‘Would you like some toast?’ she asked. Sandor looked as though he would quite like to chuck her over his shoulder and take her back upstairs for more shouty sex, but ultimately the desire for caffeine and sustenance won out and he nodded mutely.

Arya shook her head in disgust. 

‘Make sure you get tested,’ she told Sansa loudly.

‘Arya!’ said Sansa, going red and vanishing into the kitchen to hide her shame.

‘For God’s sake, you little goblin,’ said Sandor. ‘Do you ever stop?’

‘Stop what?’ said Arya. ‘Spitting truths?

‘Sticking your nose in other people’s business,’ said Sandor.

Arya considered this.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Come on, let the poor sod drink his coffee in peace,’ said Asha. ‘He’s had a tough night of horsing it into a beautiful redhead.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Sandor. ‘Bet you got on well with Bronn, didn’t you?’  

‘Like a house on fire,’ said Asha cheerfully. ‘And he went home with Margaery, so you can compare notes later and be dirty old men together.’

Sandor looked as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or to march out of the house and never return. Ultimately he settled on cradling his forehead in one ham-sized hand and kneading his temples.

Sansa waltzed back in bearing toast, and she squished herself into the tiny space between Sandor and Brienne with a happy little sigh, while the two of them tensed up considerably.

‘Why don’t we move to the table?’ suggested Sandor in an unprecedented attempt at tact.

‘What table?’ said Sansa, looking up at him with big eyes as she nibbled approximately as much as a field mouse would from her toast. It was crap when she got all girly and innocent like this. It would be so easy to go over and twat the slice out of her hand.

‘Did you build a table in the night?’ asked Meera, raising a brow.

‘Oh, is _that_ what all the banging and shouting was about?’ said Arya. 

Sparing her a quick glare, Sandor’s eyes searched the room, and then he craned his neck to see into the kitchen behind him.

‘Do you not have a fucking dining table?’ he demanded.

The girls looked around blankly.

‘No, I suppose we don’t,’ said Sansa apologetically.

Sandor seemed unreasonably frustrated by this information, and it only got worse as his gaze traversed the living room. Arya shook her head sagely. That was the thing about bringing Grown Up Men to a student house. You had to remember that most of them would be annoyed by the tottering stacks of ketchup-encrusted plates on the floor, and Meera’s thriving sea monkey tank with someone’s bra thrown over the top of it to dry, and the unfortunate stains on the wall from the time Jeyne had spouted so much drunken bullshit about how she and Sansa were _just like sisters_ that Arya had chucked a tub of cream cheese at her head. Much more straightforward to just start seeing the most decent boy on your course – preferably one who’s all muscly because he works at a garage part time, and who sometimes brings you chicken nuggets if you send him enough annoying WhatsApp messages.

For completely unrelated reasons, Arya grabbed her phone, took a surreptitious photo of Sansa, Sandor and Brienne all squashed up together on the sofa, and sent it to Gendry with the caption _He’s mad we don’t have a dining table???_

Gendry’s reply was immediate.

**??? U have laps don’t u?**

_EXACTLY_ , Arya wrote with a great deal of satisfaction, before stowing her phone to observe the fascinating scene playing out before her.

Sandor was eating his toast while Sansa stroked his arm and the two of them kept darting coy glances at each other. Although too stubborn to move from the seat she’d chosen, Brienne was clearly hating it, and had turned to her phone for solace. Interestingly, something on the screen had made her eyes bug out and her cheeks go pink.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Arya, and immediately regretted opening her mouth when her so-called friends descended on Brienne like vultures.

‘Has Officer Dreamy sent you a dick pic?’ asked Asha.

Brienne gasped loudly and clutched her phone to her chest so tightly she could probably have stymied blood from a bullet wound.

‘BRIENNE!’ said Meera. ‘Has he actually?’

‘No, he has not!’ said Brienne, who was the colour of a raspberry and still somehow going redder.

‘It’s him, though, isn’t it?’ said Asha. ‘Does he want to do a cavity search?’

‘Asha, that’s horrible,’ said Sansa. ‘Has he asked you out, Brienne?’

‘No!’ said Brienne, jumping to her feet and shoving her phone deep in her pocket. ‘Why would he? He just wants to know when I’m working this week, that’s all.’

‘Because he likes you!’ said Sansa delightedly.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ snapped Brienne. ‘I’m going to class, I’ll see you all later, all right?’

Grabbing her jacket and backpack, she practically dove out of the house.

‘She’s late,’ remarked Asha. ‘Thought she had a nine AM.’

‘Nope,’ said Meera. ‘Arya just made that up to get you all off her case.’

‘You devious little gobshite,’ said Asha, whacking Arya on the arm. ‘We were trying to help. She needs to be deflowered sooner or later, and that copper looked like he’d run her a bubble bath after and everything.’

‘Oh, leave her alone,’ said Arya. She was debating whether or not to text Brienne an apology when Jeyne slouched into the room in her dressing gown with a blanket wrapped round her shoulders, and collapsed into the newly vacated seat beside Sansa with a loud groan.

‘Good morning, sunshine,’ said Asha. ‘Aren’t we perky today?’

‘I’m just glad you’ve stopped drunkenly banging on about your weed dealer’s hairless chest,’ said Jeyne.

‘Not as glad as I am that you successfully detached your face from that ginger bloke last night. I thought he might swallow your tongue.’

‘Ugh, don’t remind me.’

‘Honestly,’ said Asha. ‘You’ve got to stop getting off with mingers just because that’s what my brother’s doing. If you fancy him, you just need to tell him. Alternatively, if you’re going to shag about, you should at least go for people you actually want to shag. Even if it is out of spite.’

‘It’s not exactly spiting Theon if he doesn’t even realise it’s supposed to be spiteful,’ said Arya. ‘He probably thinks you’re just having fun, same as he is.’ Her phone lit up and she snorted with laughter. ‘Gendry says he’ll build us a dining table, Sansa.’

Sansa prodded Sandor gently and smiled. ‘There, are you happy now?’

‘Ecstatic,’ he said drily.

‘Er, why would we want a table built by one of your nerdy friends?’ Jeyne demanded.

‘Ask him,’ said Arya, jerking her head towards Sandor.

‘And you’re dreaming if you think Gendry’s a nerd,’ said Asha. ‘Have you not fecking seen the lad? He should be in porn. Women’s porn, not the shite kind where all the blokes have a moustache. If he didn’t only have eyes for Arya here, we’d all be after him like pigeons fighting over a pizza crust.’

Cheeks flaming hot, Arya glared at Asha and whacked her with a cushion as Jeyne, Sansa and Meera promptly commenced a rapid social media search. There was some disappointment when it became apparent that the only pictures they could access on his Facebook were of his motorbike, but it turned out Sansa was friends with his sister Mya, who had posted a recent shot of him on Instagram. It was a good one, too – he was in a white t-shirt and his arm muscles were all bulgy. Not that Arya cared. But the ensuing loud admiration was even more infuriating than she could have predicted.

‘He’s _cute_!’ said Sansa, all heart-eyed excitement at the prospect of a pointless attempt at matchmaking. ‘And he’s the boy you’re always texting?’

‘He’s not cute, he’s a bull-headed moron,’ retorted Arya. ‘We’re texting because we’re friends. Not everything is about sex, Sansa.’ She glared pointedly at Sandor.

‘I’ll have him if you don’t want him,’ said Meera. ‘Look at those arms.’

‘Even you have to admit he’s good-looking, Arya,’ said Jeyne. 

‘I don’t have to do anything,’ Arya declared heatedly. ‘I don’t have to say another word to him for the rest of the year if I don’t want to. I could beat him to a pulp in five minutes.’

Sandor snorted and she glared at him. ‘I _could_! And that goes double for you. You’d be all cocky and try to go easy on me because I’m small and you fancy my sister, and you’d be flat on your back before you knew what hit you.’

‘I can’t believe you’re sisters,’ he muttered.

‘No one can,’ said Jeyne.

‘I can,’ said Meera. When everyone stared at her, she shrugged. ‘What? Your auras are similar colours.’

‘I thought you were the normal one,’ Sandor told her accusingly.

‘And what does that make me?’ Sansa asked him, all soft and flirty.

‘What colour is my aura, Meera?’ Arya asked, mostly to cover up whatever Sandor said to Sansa in response because it was certain to be disgusting.

‘You’re both quite silvery. It’s nice. You’ve got some red in there, and Sansa’s more yellow.’

‘What about him?’ Arya jerked her head at Sandor. ‘I’m sensing a sort of turd-y brown.’

‘That sounds about right, because what you’re sensing is a load of bullshit,’ he said. Arya opened her mouth to reply and he held up a hand. ‘No arguing. I’ve got to get going anyway. Got to be at the vet by eleven.’

‘Why, are you feeling ill?’ said Arya.

He did not dignify her with a response, and instead turned to Sansa, who had gone all mournfully noble, like she was watching him ship off to war.

‘Come and see me out,’ he said, and they got up and left the room, shutting the door behind them. For Arya, with her years of eavesdropping experience, this hurdle was as small as a croquet hoop. Ignoring her housemates’ eye-rolls, she snatched an empty glass from the carpet and pressed it against the door with her ear to it.

‘I could come with you,’ Sansa was saying. ‘He’ll need someone to hold him in the car, won’t he? And to help you name him. I’m very good with dogs.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Sandor, ‘but I want him to get settled with just me first. And don’t you have classes to go to?’

‘Yes, but dogs are more fun.’ There was a pause. ‘I had a really nice time last night.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

Sansa giggled.

‘Right, well,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you around, all right?’

‘What? You can’t just – you don’t even have my number. Give me your phone.’

Silence.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sansa’s voice was very small. ‘Didn’t you have fun?’

‘Jesus Christ – of course I did. You’re stunning. And funny, and smart. If you riding me was the last thing I ever saw, I’d die with a massive fucking grin on my face.’

Arya mimed vomiting down the back of the sofa. The eternal curse of the eavesdropper: overhearing something revolting. She had never let it stop her before, though, and wasn’t about to now.

‘But you’re _nineteen_. And you’ve been single for how long?’

‘Two days,’ called Arya. ‘And now she’s getting dumped all over again.’

Their reactions were simultaneous.

‘Arya, for goodness’ sake!’

‘What the hell is wrong with you, you little cretin?’

When they continued they were quieter, but not inaudible.

‘This isn’t – I’m not bloody _dumping_ you. I just think… well, it’s pretty fucking soon, isn’t it? You were together for three years.’

‘I know,’ Sansa sounded miserable. ‘But… it’s just a phone number. We don’t have to talk right away, if you don’t want to.’

‘Of course I bloody want to. But that’s not the point.’

‘But why not? It was so good last night, I keep thinking about it. I like you.’ Her voice softened to almost nothing. ‘We don’t have to come here again, if it’s been too much hassle. We can just text for a while, if you like. Or call. And then once we’ve waited, we could go for a drink, and then go back to yours. Sandor, I really, really want you…’

‘Jesus Christ, Sansa –’

‘… to let me meet your dog.’

He snorted with laughter.

‘It doesn’t have to be anything serious,’ she went on. ‘We could just have lots and lots of sex. And maybe the occasional Nando’s.’

‘What is it with teenagers and Nando’s?’

A pause, during which Sansa was almost certainly giving him the big moony eyes and pushing her tits out. Arya rolled her eyes. Who did he think he was kidding?

‘Go on, then,’ he said eventually. ‘Put your number in.’

Another pause.

‘For fuck’s sake, how many fucking emojis – oh, come here.’

Pulling a face, Arya drew away from the door and replaced the glass on the floor. It was about to get smoochy out there, and even she had her limits.

‘Finished creeping, have we?’ remarked Asha, reaching for the remote and flicking on the telly. Jeremy Kyle was shouting at a man in a tracksuit, as was his wont.

‘I like to know what’s going on,’ said Arya. ‘Nobody _tells_ me.’

‘I’ll tell you right now. He’s acting all reluctant and grumpy but he’s going to grab on with both hands. He can’t do better and he knows it. What’s your problem, anyway? You pointed him out to her.’

Arya shrugged.

Why couldn’t Sansa just be single for a while? Why did there always have to be some stupid bloke sucking up all her time and energy? Sandor wasn’t bad; not really, not compared to Harry. But it _was_ too soon. How could it be good for her? She wouldn’t exactly shrivel up and die if she went more than a day without male attention.

The front door opened and, after a moment, closed, and they saw Sandor walking up the road.

‘Jesus, finally. I need a piss,’ said Asha, getting to her feet and wandering down the hall. As she passed Sansa, she hailed her with a jovial ‘Bet you’re walking funny today, you saucy cow.’

‘Are you going to your eleven AM today, Jeyne?’ asked Meera.

‘Ugh, I haven’t done the reading. I’ll have to sit at the back.’

‘Well hurry up and get ready if we’re walking down together. I’m not missing my Soil Science lecture because you’re hungover.’

‘Oh yeah, sounds thrilling,’ said Jeyne, but she allowed herself to be dragged upstairs.

Sansa came back in and sat down next to Arya, pulling Asha’s blanket over the two of them and cuddling up close.

‘You OK?’ muttered Arya.

‘Yes,’ said Sansa. She leaned her head on Arya’s shoulder. ‘And thank you.’

‘What?’ said Arya, baffled. ‘What for?’

‘You know what for,’ said Sansa. ‘You cancelled on your plans so you could come out with us instead. You distracted everyone from that Joffrey guy, who turned out to be a total dickhead, and you made a much more favourable suggestion. Obviously you were a little shit to Sandor, but I know why. I know _you_. You were looking after me.’

Arya pulled a face, but there was a ball of warmth in her belly.

‘I did a curse to protect you at the bonfire,’ she admitted.

Sansa giggled.

‘Well, you definitely protected me from mediocre sex.’

‘Oh my God, stop talking.’

‘What? It was _amazing_. He’s massive. _Everywhere_.’

‘SHUT UP!’ Arya whacked her repeatedly with a cushion until Sansa collapsed onto her back, giggling.

‘No, wait, wait, I’ll stop, I swear!’

Arya looked at her sternly.

‘I mean it, Arya,’ said Sansa, smiling – a real smile, not flirty or polite or fake but small and earnest and true. ‘You’re the best.’

Trying not to show just how pleased she was, Arya chucked the cushion on the floor and snuggled up with her sister in front of the TV. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sansa staring down at the lock screen of her phone, which was a picture of Harry doing his signature smarmy smile.

‘Give that here,’ ordered Arya, snatching the phone and brandishing it. ‘There was never a good time to break it to you, but this posh twat looks like Tony Blair, and I am not putting up with you wasting your time looking at him for another second.’

She unlocked the phone effortlessly – Sansa’s passcodes were always easy to guess – and flipped through the photos until she found a suitable replacement. It was a group shot from last night; the seven of them in front of the bonfire, illuminated in firelight and in shadow. Jeyne, trying to tilt her head in precisely the most flattering angle. Meera, calm and comfy and smiling at something far off. Margaery, on-brand as ever with her flask to her lips. Asha, eyes sly and mouth open as she made a filthy joke. Brienne, pink-cheeked and long-suffering, lips pressed together but eyes shining with amusement. Arya, trying to gurn violently for the camera but ruining it by sniggering. And Sansa, there in the middle of it all, sad and tipsy but startled into laughter.

The picture probably wouldn’t stay on her lock screen for long. Arya was willing to bet that in a month tops it would be replaced by a shot of Sandor trying and failing to look grumpy and intimidating while Sansa smooched his cheek or cuddled his dog, or something else equally sick-making. But for now, there it was; all of them huddled up in the warmth of the fire, surrounding and protecting her like a talisman.

‘Right, I’m fecking parched,’ announced Asha, re-emerging from the hall and rounding up a selection of dirty mugs from the floor. ‘Who wants more tea?’

Naturally, Arya and Sansa both did. They weren’t animals. And in the end, although the Houses of Parliament were once again still standing on November the sixth, Arya decided it had been a pretty successful Bonfire Night all round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the timeless Morning After Hungover Hangout, featuring The Latest One Night Stand Guy. This was such a staple of my university experience that it had to be included - not that Sandor is going to be a one night stand, obviously. The grotty living room is lifted directly out of my student house in Essex, except our sea monkeys were very much not thriving because they were in fact dead. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for all your lovely comments!


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